


Beloved

by blackash26



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU - Comicverse, Robin (Comics)
Genre: Child Neglect, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Parent/Child Incest, Read at Own Risk, Screwed Up Ideas of Love and Intimacy, Timeline What Timeline, Unreliable Narrator, very dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackash26/pseuds/blackash26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I am either Beloved or I am not. How can there be anything else? If- if I cannot be Beloved how can Bruce want me? I want to fit here. Be… be right. Good. But, what am I supposed to do? I don’t want to be alone again. I don’t want to be forgotten.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beloved

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter was initially written as a response to heartslogos' prompt “In the dark my name is Beloved.” What was supposed to be a one-shot spiraled into a very screwed up story complete with plot and character development and troublesome things like that.
> 
> Please take all of the warnings very seriously. This story is not for the faint of heart. It in no way shape or form romanticizes rape or sexual abuse. These topics are dealt with very seriously. The story explores the ways in which Tim's psychology has been deeply affected by what was done to him. And while Beloved deals in large part with Tim's long and very bumpy road to healing, this is not a happy story. Again, please use discretion and read at your own risk.

In the dark his name is Beloved. In the light he often thinks he has no name at all. He has one, of course. Of course he does, it would be improper to do otherwise. But no one uses it because there is no one there. There is only him, his distant keepers and the tall imposing gods that occasionally intrude on his silent  ~~ _(prisoncastlehome?)_~~  place.  
  
But in the dark he is not alone. In the dark he is held and loved and his name is Beloved.  
  
Beloved is not a name that can exist in the light. (He made that mistake only once, in the beginning. He knows better now.) Beloved is a name that can only be spoken in whispers, hot against his ear. Only felt in the sensation of silk bed sheets and fingertips sliding over his bare skin. Only smelled in the thick musky scent that covers him like a blanket.  
  
All of these little things compose his name. Some days he fears that those little things are all that ties him to the world, that without them he would float away, intangible and forgotten. Other days, the bad days, when he has been untouched for months he knows it to be true. There are more bad days than he would like. The comforts of the dark always evaporate so quickly in the light of day.  
  
He often finds himself praying, not to the deity that lives the strange building he has seen only a few times, but rather to the itinerant gods of his ( ~~ _mansiontowerjail_~~ ) residence. He waits and waits for their return, because without them the dark is only the dark, and he is nameless. Unloved.  
  
Being Beloved hurts sometimes.  
  
All the time.  
  
But being Unloved hurts more.  
  
Loneliness presses in on him, suffocating and heavy, until he can bear it no more. Until he thinks he will shatter into a thousand pieces under the weight. Until he thinks he will vanish into nothingness.  
  
He cries in the dark during these times, because he cannot be Beloved by himself. He cannot be anything by himself.  
  
He prays and prays then, his lips mouthing silent promises against his pillow at night. He vows to be good, to be docile and obedient if only the one who calls him Beloved would return, but he is powerless against the whims of gods.  
  
It is the loneliness that finally drives Unloved out during the famine of the gods’ absences. That is what pushes him to impossible heights chasing snatches of warmth and color. It soothes the agony of his heart to see another and his Beloved. The sight through the lens of his camera gives him hope that someday soon he will be Beloved again.  
  
He watches and watches, during the times between when he is Beloved, and feels at peace.  
  
His comfort is shattered when another Beloved flies in the sky. It frightens him to think another could be Beloved in his place, that he may still be forgotten even though he tries so very hard to be right and good and Beloved.  
  
Almost before his world manages to adjust to the Second Beloved, he vanishes. Gone. But not forgotten. Not unloved.  
  
He knows this because he can  _feel_  the rage, the sorrow in the darkness. The Beloved was not forsaken. He was taken. Stolen.  
  
His peace is gone. And he aches inside for the lack of it.  
  
This pain is what gives him,  _him,_  stupid, worthless and Unloved as he is, the courage to try to bring color back into the night.  
  
The events he sets in motion quickly spin out of his control. The old Beloved will not bend to duty, will not make it right and he must step in. But even that is not so simple.  
  
He is taken in, but nothing makes sense.  
  
Bruce looks at him.  _Sees_  him. All the time. Not only in the dark. Not only when he is draped in fine colors or nothing at all. But he only looks, never touches.  
  
No. That isn’t right. He does. A hand on the arm, through his hair. Hands guiding, shaping, teaching, fighting. But he doesn’t –  
  
He doesn’t –  
  
He doesn’t understand.  
  
He tries and tries. He tries so hard to be good. To be worth it.  
  
But he is still Unloved.  
  
For months and months he waits. He waits so patiently, but still he doesn’t –  
  
And he doesn’t understand what he’s doing wrong. But he just wants –  
  
He wants to be Beloved.  _His_  Beloved. To be touched and cherished and loved. He wants it so badly it hurts.  
  
He wants to ask, to try and understand what he’s doing wrong. So he can be better. But he knows better than to ask, knows better than to ruin the only chance he has at being as treasured as the second Beloved so obviously was and is.  
  
He waits until he cannot anymore. And he knows it is wrong, but he wants to belong to this place, to these people and he knows only one way to make himself matter.  
  
In the dark of night he strips himself of warmth and color, crawls between silk sheets and waits.  
  
And hopes.  
  
But when Bruce appears looming over the bed in the darkness, his responses are all wrong.  
  
It doesn’t make sense.  
  
“Tim.” Bruce’s voice rumbles in the dark and Tim stares up at him with hopeful eyes even though this is not correct. In the dark his name has always been Beloved. Never Tim.  
  
But that’s okay. It’s okay if Bruce does it a little differently. Just as long as Tim is loved. As long as he isn’t alone.  
  
“Tim, why are you in my bed?” Bruce asks.  
  
He doesn’t understand the question, doesn’t understand why Bruce is making this so difficult. He knows better than to speak, not in the dark. So he sits up, letting silky soft sheets pool around his waist, making his nakedness clear even in the dark of the room.  
  
“Tim, what are you doing?” Bruce sounds upset.  
  
What is he doing wrong?  
  
He kicks the bedding aside and turns over, putting himself on display. Showing Bruce that he is ready, that he knows how this works, that he can be what Bruce needs. He closes his eyes and waits.  
  
He feels the bed shift, but nothing more. Nothing happens for the longest time.  
  
When hands finally come, they do not act as they should. Instead they grip his shoulders, gentle, impersonal, and they turn his around. Then they drape the sheets back over his lap and another blanket is wrapped around his shoulder.  
  
He is confused. Lost.  
  
He finally looks up into Bruce’s eyes and tries to understand what he is doing wrong.  
  
But the clues he finds in Bruce’s face make no sense.  
  
“Tim, who taught you to do this?” Bruce asks.  
  
And he knows that Bruce is angry. But he doesn’t understand why. He is torn between the need to please, to be Bruce’s Beloved and his knowledge of the rules.  
  
“Tim. Answer me.” That is the Batman voice. The voice he walks nightly through fire and hell for.  
  
“My father,” he answers automatically.  
  
Bruce’s face contorts. He has studied facial expressions long and hard enough to understand that if Bruce was anyone else, he would be crying. But that doesn’t mean Tim understands.  
  
“What’s wrong?” he asks even though he knows he isn’t supposed to speak.  
  
Bruce lets out a shuddering gasp and pulls him into a hug.  
  
He is new to hugs. The First Beloved has tried very hard to teach him, but he knows he is bad at it. He wonders sometimes if that is why Bruce has not touched him.  
  
But Bruce does not remove the blankets, does not touch his skin, just holds him with painful gentleness.  
  
“I don’t understand,” he whispers. “What am I doing wrong? Why won’t you love me?”  
  
“Nothing. You’ve done nothing wrong,” Bruce says in harsh whisper. “I love you very much, Tim. But not like that. Never like that. And never again. I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”  
  
 _Never like that._  
  
What other way is there?  
  
 _Never again._  
  
Is he truly so unworthy?  
  
His eyes fill with tears as he realizes that he truly is Unloved, even here, in this kind house. He shakes like a leaf and tries to push himself away, but Bruce holds on tight and that doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. If he isn’t Beloved, why won’t Bruce let him go? Why won’t Bruce let him disappear?  
  
“I don’t understand,” he cries over and over.  
  
“It’s okay,” Bruce whispers into his ear in the dark of the room. “It’s okay.”


	2. Unloved

It isn’t okay.  
  
That much quickly becomes clear.  
  
He does not remember falling asleep, but he must have because he awakens in his own bed. Bruce is nowhere to be found. Another sign of his failure. Why couldn’t he wait just a little bit longer? Horrible. Stupid. Why would Bruce want him?  
  
He looks around his empty bedroom and hates himself.  
  
Alone.  
  
He is alone again. Always alone.  
  
Will he be cast out? Or be quietly forgotten? He knows better than to think he will have a choice, but -  
  
But he is still here. Now. Still in the kind house, despite his failure.  
  
Maybe. Maybe he can try again?  
  
But, Bruce. Bruce does not want him.  
  
He doesn’t know what to do.  
  
He wanders out of his room in a daze. When he walks downstairs the First Beloved is there and his stomach fills with dread at the look in the First Beloved’s eyes. The First Beloved knows he has been rejected. Knows he is Unloved.  
  
“Tim,” the First Beloved greets almost like nothing is wrong, calling that name like it means something, and pulls him into a hug.  
  
He stands awkwardly in the embrace, always so unsure of how to respond.  
  
“I did something wrong,” he mumbles miserably into the First Beloved’s shoulder.  
  
The First Beloved pulls him closer, so tight that it should be suffocating, but somehow it isn’t.  
  
“You, Bru-” the First Beloved stumbles over his words which is strange, he knows. The First Beloved is so much more eloquent than that. Is the First Beloved that angry with him? “You haven’t done anything wrong,” the First Beloved says finally.  
  
Why is the First Beloved lying to him?  
  
“Bruce doesn’t want me.” He tries to explain what should be obvious. “I must have done something wrong, unless I really am just wrong. Am I? I don’t mean to be.”  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with you. Bruce. Bruce doesn’t do that. He. He doesn’t do that sort of…thing with us,” the First Beloved says, voice measured in careful increments.  
  
He pulls away and looks at the First Beloved’s sad blue eyes. “But you are Beloved,” he says.  
  
“Beloved?” the First Beloved asks, his face contorted in confusion as he asks a question he should know the answer to, that everyone should know the answer to.  
  
He purses his lips and tries to make the words line up correctly in his head. It is difficult. He has never needed to put such basic truths into words before. “In the dark we are Beloved,” he begins carefully, hoping the First Beloved will catch on and let him stop. But the First Beloved just watches him in silence and so he continues. “Only in the dark. In the day we, I am not.”  
  
“Not?”  
  
“Not Beloved,” he says.  
  
“Why?” Blue eyes narrow intently.  
  
“It isn’t allowed,” he says.  
  
“Then what are you during the day?” the First Beloved asks.  
  
“Nameless. Unloved,” he says honestly.  
  
The First Beloved looks angry. No. Upset. There is a difference.  
  
“You aren’t unloved, Tim. You know that. Don’t you? No, what am I saying, of course you don’t, otherwise you wouldn’t have said it. But we do love you. So much. You have to believe me. And, and you can’t be nameless. You have a name. Your name is Tim. Timmy. My little brother.”  
  
Why does the First Beloved keep lying to him? Does the First Beloved think he isn’t strong enough to understand? He is. He knows what he is.  
  
“A name is meaningless unless there is someone there to use it,” he says. “Beloved is the only true name I’ve ever had.”  
  
The First Beloved makes a strange high pitched sound and wraps back around him with strong, wiry arms. “Tim, Tim, Tim,” the First Beloved says again and again. “You won’t ever have to be Beloved again.”  
  
He begins to tremble in the First Beloved’s arms. “But, but if I’m not Beloved, what am I?” he asks.  
  
“You’re Tim,” the First Beloved answers, voice so sure.  
  
“Tim is nothing,” he says. He feels frustrated, like they are speaking two separate languages. “Nothing. No one. Unloved. Not like you.”  
  
“That’s not – I. Damn it. Tim, I’m not ‘beloved’,” the First Beloved says.  
  
“Of course you are,” he says. Perhaps he was right in thinking that Bruce called it something else.  
  
“Not if that word means what I think it means,” the First Beloved grumbles.  
  
“I don’t understand,” he says because he doesn’t even though it seems like he should.  
  
“Tim, listen to me,” the First Beloved says, leaning back to look him in the eye. “Bruce, he doesn’t do that. He has never, ever  _touched_  me. Or Jason. Not like that. And he won’t touch you like that, either. He cares for us. He loves us in his own emotionally stunted way, but that doesn’t include that kind of touching or, or him ever seeing you naked outside of an infirmary, when you’re wounded. Do you understand, Tim?”  
  
“Yes,” he says.  
  
It’s a lie and the First Beloved knows it.  
  
 _“Tim.”_  It is a warning.  
  
“I don’t understand,” he admits under that stern blue gaze, feeling weak and small and stupid. Words spill out of his mouth like a dam within him has broken open. “I am either Beloved or I am not. How can there be anything else? If- if I cannot be Beloved how can Bruce want me? I want to fit here. Be… be right. Good. But, what am I supposed to do? I don’t want to be alone again. I don’t want to be forgotten.”  
  
“We could never forget you,” the First Beloved says like he believes it.  
  
“Everyone forgets me,” he whispers as he tries to gather up the shattered pieces of his senses. Tries to rein himself in, to remember the rules that kept him going for so long. But nothing is lining up. The rules are changing and he can’t keep up.  
  
“Your parents,” the First Beloved snarls.  
  
He realizes that the First Beloved is angry now, but he doesn’t understand why. What is there to be angry about?  
  
He shrugs and tries again to make the other understand. “I’ve always been alone. I was nothing. But then he…I became Beloved, and sometimes I wasn’t alone anymore. It was nice. I was something. That’s good, isn’t it?”  
  
The First Beloved makes a choking sound. “Tim. No, it. God. What your father did to you. It was  _wrong._  You have to understand that. Parents are not supposed do  _that_ with their children. That isn’t love. It’s, it’s abuse.”  
  
He shakes his head violently. “No,” he says. “It can’t be wrong. I,  _I_  am wrong, not good enough. But being Beloved. It, it isn’t bad. I – ”  
  
“You haven’t done anything wrong. You aren’t bad,” the First Beloved is almost shouting now and it is overwhelming. Terrifying. The First Beloved never shouts. Bad. Bad. “He’s the one who’s wrong. He hurt you, Tim. He’s a monster.”  
  
He feels so very small against the tide of the first Beloved’s words. Drowning. He’s drowning and none of this makes any sense. “He’s not,” he says quietly, helplessly. “He loves me. Why is that bad? No one else does.”  
  
“Of course we love you!” the First Beloved cries, tears pooling in blue eyes.  
  
Why? Why? Why is the First Beloved lying? Lying with his words, with his tears, with his face.  
  
“How?” he demands. He shouldn’t demand. Not allowed. Rude. But he is so frustrated. So afraid. He doesn’t want to leave.  
  
“How?” the First Beloved parrots back.  
  
And he wants to cry because why is the First Beloved being so cruel? So nonsensical.  
  
“How can you love me? I. I haven’t done anything,” he tries to explain, but he knows he is not being understood. Knows his words are not reaching the First Beloved.  
  
“You don’t  _have_  to do anything. Love isn’t meant to be conditional,” the First Beloved says.  
  
But love  _is_  conditional. He knows. He understands that. He always has. There are – there are  _rules_  and payments and –  
  
He abruptly turns around and starts walking. The First Beloved attempts to follow him, but his body moves on its own. Automatic. Striking out, quick like lightening, stopping any pursuit in its tracks. His heart hurts for the First Beloved. So much better than him, he doesn’t deserve to touch the First Beloved. But he is afraid. And he cannot-  
  
He cannot stay here anymore.  
  
He runs.  
  
Runs and runs until he is back to the  _ ~~manorcitadeldwelling~~_  house.  
  
There is no one there anymore. Not even faceless keepers.  
  
He is old enough to take care of himself.  
  
The gods tell him so when they climb down from the sky to gaze judgingly down at him. But there are no gods here today. Only him.  
  
The world is blurry. His cheeks are wet. And he is dizzy. Sick. Confused.  
  
Alone.  
  
He goes to his room, because where else can he go?  
  
He climbs between his sheets and buries his face in his pillow, trying to find the long faded scent of the dark, of Beloved.  
  
But there is nothing there.


	3. Confused

He wakes up in darkness.  
  
He feels slow, heavy, like he is submerged under endless tons of water, drowning.  
  
Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. But he does not quite remember what.  
  
He rolls over, onto his back and looks up at the ceiling.  
  
He knows every inch of that ceiling. Every speck, every fleck of paint, every wayward shadow. The familiarity of it is soothing, an old friend, his oldest and perhaps only, always looking down on him. Watching him sleep, keeping vigil with him on the nights when sleep is too elusive to capture, comforting him even when he is unloved and –   
  
His stomach churns sickeningly and his throat burns as he remembers.  
  
He, he went to Bruce.  
  
Stupid. Stupid.  
  
What had he been thinking? And now, now, he had broken the rules. Broken. And the First Beloved. The First Beloved said –   
  
He will never be Beloved again.  
  
The First Beloved told him that. The First Beloved does not lie.  
  
His heart feels like it is being squeezed in a vise, tighter and tighter and he cannot breathe.  
  
Bruce has not cast him out, not yet, but the First Beloved’s words ring clear in his mind. Perhaps, Bruce was so embarrassed by his misbehavior that he sent the First Beloved in his stead. To be kinder. That would be like him. And maybe…maybe even the First Beloved was embarrassed by him as well. Ashamed of him.  
  
His mind clears and he understands. He understands what they were trying to tell him and knows that he is undeserving of their kindness. They are giving him the dignity of being able to disappear on his own. They will not drive him out. They will not. Yell at him. Or punish him.  
  
He almost wishes they would. But, no. That is selfish.  
  
He is selfish. So selfish.  
  
He does not deserve to be Beloved. The First Beloved told him so.  
  
He deserves to be alone.  
  
His eyes sting and he closes them tightly, trying to drive away the sob building in his throat. The gods are always telling him how weak he is. What a disappointment he is. They are right, of course. Always right. But he tries. He tries so hard and he cannot cry.  
  
The world is a cruel place with very strict rules. He knows his place in this unchanging world. He accepts it. Understands.  
  
Crying is pointless. Wasteful. Stupid.  
  
It doesn’t change anything. It never has.  
  
He breathes in and out, clinging desperately to what little control he has until his body stops this ridiculous behavior.  
  
His heartbeat finally slows somewhat. He can begin to plan now. Figure out how to cut ties quickly and painlessly like Bruce wants. He is tied to the  ~~ _fortressdungeonpalace_~~  house of the gods, but he knows that physical proximity is no real obstacle. He only needs to fade into the background. Forgotten. He calculates that it will take no time at all. He is so easily forgotten, after all.  
  
A hand on his shoulder. His eyes shoot open and his head jerks around. Only one person ever comes into his room. For a moment he is filled with some insane hope that maybe the gods have returned home unexpectedly or that Bruce has changed his mind and –   
  
But it is neither.  
  
It takes far too long for his brain to match the silhouette looming over him with a name and a face.  
  
And then there is only confusion.  
  
He blinks up at Alfred and wonders what he is supposed to do. Is Alfred here to –   
  
The thought has never occurred to him. But it should have. Perhaps Bruce was also once Beloved. Perhaps Alfred would let him be Beloved again.  
  
He sits up and moves to take off his shirt, but Alfred’s hand on his shoulder stills the movement.  
  
“You missed dinner, Master Timothy. Is everything well?” Alfred asks like nothing is wrong.  
  
“I. My apologies, Alfred. I guess I just lost track of the time,” he lies automatically to hide his confusion.  
  
He prays that Alfred will not notice the tremor in his voice.  
  
“I am glad. We were most concerned. Master Bruce requested that I bring you home,” Alfred continues.  
  
“I am home.” Another lie. A bad one. He used to be so good at this.  
  
“We both know that is not the case, Master Timothy,” Alfred says mildly, but there is a strange note in the man’s voice. One he cannot place.  
  
He flinches a little, but Alfred says nothing, simply helps him to his feet and guides him out of the bedroom, out of the house and down to the car. He follows without question, even as his mind swarms with uncertainty. He sits in the backseat and stares blankly ahead trying to understand.  
  
He doesn’t notice the car start to move, but feels the car roll to a stop and knows they are back at the manor.  
  
That makes no sense, though.  
  
They wanted him to leave, didn’t they?  
  
Why, why then are they bringing him back?  
  
Is this punishment?  
  
He knows better than to expect clarity, for anything to be explained to him. But he has gotten good at deciphering these things. He can tell what people want from him without needing to be told. He can be good. He can.  
  
But Bruce –   
  
Bruce isn’t acting the way he expects.  
  
Nothing. Nothing is lining up.  
  
What does Bruce want from him?  
  
He wants to scream in frustration. But that would be bad. He doesn’t want to be bad.  
  
Alfred opens the car door and helps him to his feet. He doesn’t remember going into the house or being lead to the kitchen. But he does feel a silver spoon being placed in his hand and his body automatically uses the tool to consume the soup Alfred places in front of him.  
  
He eats every tasteless bite because that is what he is supposed to do.  
  
That is one rule that he knows still holds true, even here.


	4. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His meal sits heavy in his stomach like dread as he walks slowly down the hall._

His meal sits heavy in his stomach like dread as he walks slowly down the hall.  
  
Alfred told him to go to Bruce’s study.  
  
He doesn’t want to go. But that is not his choice to make. If he runs Alfred will just come find him again. And then he will be in even more trouble. So instead he walks as slowly as he can.  
  
Even though it is disrespectful and rude not to be prompt to a summons.  
  
Anything to put this off a moment longer.  
  
He doesn’t think he can take any more of this. Any more of the back and forth, the smiles and lies. The kindness. The rejection.  
  
He can only dawdle for so long, though, before someone comes looking for him. Unless they forget. But he can’t count on being forgotten. Not here. In this kind house where all of the rules have been turned on their heads.  
  
As he grows slowly closer to the study door he hears muffled sounds. The closer he gets the clearer they become until he knows for sure what he is hearing.  
  
Voices. Loud voices.  
  
“-amn it, Bruce!”  
  
That is the First Beloved. He didn’t know the First Beloved was still here.  
  
He hovers silently at the closed door. Listening.  
  
“You’re not thinking clearly.” That is Bruce speaking. No, not speaking. Growling. Bruce is angry.  
  
“Take a look in the mirror, B!” The First Beloved is yelling.  
  
He feels sick to his stomach. Bruce and the First Beloved are fighting. They always fight, but he’d thought it was getting better. Bruce loves the First Beloved. Why are they so upset?  
  
“Do you honestly think this is going to solve anything?” the First Beloved continues loudly.  
  
Bruce grunts. He can’t tell if Bruce says anything else in response, but he hears the First Beloved’s reply loud and clear.  
  
“No. No. Don’t you dare brush me off. You ran away from him, Bruce. What do you think is going to happen if you do this?”  
  
“I wasn’t running away,” Bruce snarls.  
  
“Oh, and what would  _you_  call what you did? Because from my end it sure as hell looked a lot like running away,” the First Beloved spits venomously. “God only knows what it looked like from his.”  
  
“My presence was clearly hurting him,” Bruce snaps. “You weren’t there, Dick. You didn’t see it. He honestly thought I – ”  
  
“No, I wasn’t there,” the First Beloved returns sharply. “I just had to deal with the aftermath. He was devastated, Bruce. “  
  
He freezes, his hands clenched into fists, his nails digging red crescents into the palms of his hands. Him. They’re talking about him. They’re fighting about him. Worthless, stupid him.  
  
He feels nauseous. He can feel Alfred’s soup churn warningly in his stomach.  
  
He’s coming between them. He’s going to ruin everything.  
  
This is all his fault.  
  
He’s so focused on the disturbing realization that two of the only people to ever openly acknowledge him are fighting about him that he barely even registers the rest of the fight. The words fade in and out of the background of his mind like the quiet murmur of voices on an old radio playing in another room.  
  
“Which is exactly why I’m doing this.”  
  
“You’re just going to end up driving him away. Like you drove me away. Just like Ja– Shit, I’m sorry Bruce, I didn’t – ”  
  
“You did, though.”  
  
“Bruce.”  
  
“If he thinks I would do that to him, then how can he trust me to protect him on the street?”  
  
“So that’s it? You’re going to dump him, just like that?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“I let this go on long enough.”  
  
“You – you didn’t know.”  
  
“That’s no excuse. My…my  _son_  has suffered and I did nothing. I’ve begun taking steps.”  
  
“What kind of steps?”  
  
“I’m going to -”  
  
A burst of static blinds him, deafens him, a screaming litany of curses and accusations in his mind. Perhaps he is the radio, his overworked circuits shorting out, drowning him in white noise. He wants to bang his head against the wall, knock the noise out of himself -  
  
The First Beloved laughs. An ugly, angry sound that cuts through all the other noise, if only for a moment.  
  
“His parents are still alive, you know. I’m sure you remember them.  _Him_  especially. They’re not going to give up without a fight.”  
  
“Yes, I do know. They’re currently abroad in Haiti. By the time they return things will have progressed far enough that they won’t be able to stop it.”  
  
“Are you su– B, what are you doing?”  
  
The door he hadn’t realized he was leaning against swung open, sending him crashing to the floor. He doesn’t know how long he crouched there, hearing, but not listening, not understanding, and it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s been caught. It’s over. Over.  
  
He scrambles to his feet, keeping his head down. He cannot look them in the eyes. Cannot not let them see him. Unless they order him to. Then it’s bad. Disrespectful .  _Why won’t you look at me you ungrateful brat?_  
  
“Timmy…”  
  
That is the First Beloved.  
  
He cannot bring himself to look at the First Beloved.  
  
“How much did you hear?” Bruce growls.  
  
He has to answer. “You’re angry at me,” he responds automatically, voice hollow.  
  
“Of course we’re not angry you at, Tim. Why would you - ” the First Beloved says, but the words wash over him and past him. Right now the only thing that matters is what Bruce says. Bruce makes the rules. Not the First Beloved. And definitely not him.  
  
“I’m not angry at you, Tim,” Bruce says.  
  
Another lie. A kind one. One he wants to believe so badly it hurts.  
  
“Did you hear anything else?” Bruce asks.  
  
He pales and feels so stupid for not paying attention. Failure. He’s such a failure. Why can’t he do better? He frantically goes back over half remembered pieces of dialogue and tries to piece something sensible together.  
  
It takes embarrassingly long for him figure out the gist of what Bruce and the First Beloved had been discussing, but once he does, he wishes he hadn’t.  
  
He had been prepared for this. But they had taken him back, forced him back, only to tell him now.  
  
“You’re getting rid of me,” he whispers.  
  
“Weren’t you listening?” The First Beloved demands. Disbelieving. Annoyed. Angry. At him.  
  
“I’m not getting rid of you. But I am benching you until further notice,” Bruce says.  
  
Robin. They’re taking Robin.  
  
His heart pounds like a drum in his chest. Loud. So loud.  
  
He is breaking. Shattering. All of the floor. So messy.  
  
Inconsiderate.  
  
Stupid.  
  
Robin is not his. He is just a placeholder. He is expendable. Robin is not his name, even if it has been nice to pretend. He’s good at pretending. Robin is loved in ways even Beloved cannot be. And even though it is the only other thing he has ever been good for, he knows Robin does not belong to him. So it shouldn’t hurt this badly. He has always known this was coming –  
  
He is good at placating himself. Can comfort himself through any pain, any fear. He has had to. If he doesn’t take care of himself no one will.  
  
But the platitudes are not working.  
  
Everything is falling apart. He can’t do anything. He can’t -  
  
He can’t –  
  
He can’t breathe.  
  
“No,” he gasps, desperate, choking on nothing. “No. Please. Not Robin. Please.”  
  
Without Robin he is completely useless. If he cannot be Beloved and he cannot be Robin then he really is nothing. Who would want him then? Certainly not Bruce.  
  
There are arms around him, a firm body against his back. He tries to struggle, tries to escape, but he can’t move. He can’t breathe. Everything is crashing down on him. Choking him. Suffocating him.  
  
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he cries between grasps breaths. “Not Robin. Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”  
  
Words are murmured in his ear, but it’s all nonsense. Meaningless.  
  
His vision swims, spotted black and he thinks that maybe he’s dying.  
  
He hopes so.


	5. Alone

The gods have fallen.

The knowledge leaves him cold. Empty.

He did not think it was possible.

They had always stood as tall as giants in his mind.

Strong .

Powerful.

Untouchable.

Unreachable.

But the gods are dead.

Well. Not quite.

His back hurts. His legs ache. But he does not move from his perch beside the hospital bed. Not for food. Not for rest. Not for all of the First Beloved’s begging or Bruce’s orders or Alfred’s unspoken worry.

He sits there and clings to a limp hand that he knows by heart, with his eyes closed even though he cannot remember ever having held it in his hands before.

“Wake up. Wake up.” He mouths the words over and over. Praying.

Day after day.

There is nothing else left for him. Robin is dead; Bruce made sure he understood that. The only thing he has in the entire world lies unmoving in this bed.

And he just –

He’s so  _lonely_.

He just wants to be held. Cared for. Valued.

Loved.

Is that so much to ask?

Is it too much?

He knows he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve anything.

But. But he needs –

He needs –

No. He doesn’t need anything. He has food and water and shelter. Anything more is unnecessary. A mere  _want_.

Selfish. He’s so selfish. Bad. This is his fault. Everything. Why couldn’t he just -

But the loneliness presses down on him, relentless and cold, like walls closing in, inch by inch until there’s nowhere left to run. No air left to breathe.

 And he is afraid. So very afraid.

He’s falling apart. He can feel it happening. Feels himself fragment, bits and pieces of himself blowing away in the wind without Beloved to hold him together. He’s fading into nothingness. It’s only a matter of time before he’s completely forgotten.

All he wants is to belong to someone. Anyone.

But no one wants him. How could they?

Why does his treacherous heart always yearn for the impossible?

***

Footsteps and the sounds of voices come and go. Some loud. Some soft.

He recognizes some of the words. Words like “coma” and “stable” in clinical tones. Other words like “shock” and “grief” spoken in whispers. But the words exist without context, floating through space and time without anchor. Adrift.

It’s easier not to listen.

There was a lot of yelling the first time he came here. There always seems to be a lot of yelling in the kind house now, even before he learned that his world had ended yet again.

The First Beloved is always there. Always touching him. Not like that. No. The First Beloved has made it clear how unwanted he is. But. There are…hugs. And hair ruffles and hands on his shoulders even though he does not, cannot respond. The assaults are more confusing now than ever after he made such a fool of himself in Bruce’s study.

He doesn’t know how they can bear to look at him after the mess he made.

He’s such a bad child. So inconsiderate. He knows how busy they are. Why can’t he just stay out of their way?

He knows they only yell at each other because they want to yell at him instead. He doesn’t understand why they won’t yell at him and get it over with. He doesn’t want them to hurt each other. He isn’t worth that. He isn’t worth anything.

Sometimes he feels a prick at his neck or the corner of his arm and the darkness claims him from his vigil. He always awakens in the kind house but he cannot stay there. He cannot stand it. Cannot keep waiting for the inevitable rejection. Cannot endure being killed in pieces. First the chance to be Bruce’s Third Beloved, then Robin, and then his only chance to be Beloved again.

There is nothing left.

Nothing but faded scents, hazy memories and a hospital bed.

He clings to what he can. When he can’t go to the hospital he returns to the  ~~ _palacefortresstomb_~~  residence and lies curled up in his bed, eyes closed. Remembering.

He imagines big hands on his body, running over his skin. Touching him. He imagines hands in his hair and a musky taste in his mouth. Owning him. He imagines silk sheets sliding against his stomach, a heavy body pressing down on him. Claiming him.

He imagines it is dark and that he is wanted. That he is Beloved.

It is a lie. His favorite lie. But he knows the truth.

In the kind house. In his room. Beside the hospital bed.

The truth is always there, lurking on the edges of his awareness. Mocking his every action as futile.

Because it doesn’t matter what he does.

No one wants him.

He is completely and utterly alone.


	6. Wounded

He loses track of time.  
  
Days and weeks bleed together and he bleeds with them. A gaping wound slowly bleeding out until there’s nothing left. Just an empty corpse.  
  
There is nothing. He is nothing. Not Robin. Not Beloved. Not anyone.  
  
The only thing he has, the only hope he has lies motionless in a hospital bed.  
  
He sits and stares at the slack face he remembers best shrouded in shadow.  
  
The wound pulses. Blood pools up to the surface and he aches.  
  
He knows it is bad. Knows he will get into trouble. But he can no longer stop himself.  
  
He climbs into the bed and curls around the unmoving statue that lies there. He clings to flimsy hospital pajamas. Puts pressure on the wound. Just a little. Not enough. Because -  
  
Because it is strange to lie this way.  
  
He feels like a thief. Stealing this touch without payment. Without giving his due.  
  
It isn’t real. He knows that.  
  
It isn’t enough, but it’s all that he has.  
  
***  
  
The prick comes more and more often now. And when he wakes in the kind house, the doors and windows are barred.  
  
He picks the locks. He breaks the glass. Later he also escapes from the restraints.  
  
He always goes back to the hospital bed. He has to. If he’s good –  
  
If he’s good and obedient and –  
  
Maybe then he will be allowed to be Beloved again.  
  
***  
  
The woman sits across from him. Her eyes are dark and warm and so very intelligent.  
  
“Good morning, Tim,” she says gently. “What would you like to talk about today?”  
  
He shrugs. He cannot look her in the eyes.  
  
He studies the carpet with studious interest. He likes the carpet. It has s a nice design with interlocking geometric shapes. He traces the predictable, repeating pattern with his eyes. It’s soothing.  
  
The woman talks at him.  
  
Her lips form words. Her vocal chords produce sounds. But nothing she says makes sense.  
  
Her voice is gentle. Always kind. She never raises her voice. No matter how bad he is. Even though he’s been so rude to her. To everyone.  
  
It’s terrifying.  
  
He doesn’t answer her. He can’t. No matter how many times they set him before this woman he always sits mute in front of her. He doesn’t know what to say. What she wants him to say.  
  
When the hour is up, Bruce comes and takes him away from the strange woman.  
  
“Any progress?” Bruce asks the woman before they leave.  
  
He closes his eyes and tries not to cry. Why do they insist on playing these games with him? Why won’t they just tell him what they want? He wants to tear at his hair and scream at them until the world starts making sense again. But he can’t. He can’t. Bad. So bad. He deserves this. He does.  
  
“These things take time, Bruce,” the woman says, her voice is distressingly free of judgment. “Nothing is going to happen overnight. We’ll try again in a few days, okay?”  
  
As they leave the too-welcoming office he knows he has failed Bruce yet again.  
  
And he still doesn’t understand why.  
  
***  
***  
  
Something is wrong.  
  
Something other than him, for once.  
  
It takes him embarrassingly long to notice, but once he does he hates himself for his negligence. His uselessness.  
  
He should have seen. Should have noticed.  
  
The doors are no longer locked. The windows are no longer barred. When he wants to go to the hospital either Alfred or the First Beloved escorts him. They hover closer than ever; pretending to be calm, but he can see the tension in their shoulders, the strange look in their eyes.  
  
Bruce, when he is there, is worse. His eyes are shadowed, his back bowed. But Bruce is not around much.  
  
He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know what he’s done to cause this behavior. He doesn’t know what he’d done wrong this time.  
  
But, no. He’s being selfish, he finally realizes. This isn’t about him. Of course it isn’t. He isn’t that important.  
  
He’s so unbearably self-centered. So negligent. Why didn’t he see?  
  
Something is happening.  
  
Something is happening in Gotham. Something big.  
  
He feels sick at the thought.  
  
He doesn’t know how much time has passed since he heard that the gods had fallen. He doesn’t know how many weeks or months he’s missed. He doesn’t know who is in jail and who is walking free. He doesn’t know what gangs are on the rise and which are losing their hold.  
  
He doesn’t know  _anything_.  
  
The panic builds, rising like the tide, faster and faster. His heart pounds, louder and louder.  
  
Then he remembers.  
  
Of course he doesn’t know.  
  
Why should he?  
  
He isn’t Robin.  
  
Not anymore.  
  
Not Robin.  
  
Unwanted.  
  
Unloved.  
  
It isn’t any of his business.  
  
Bruce said so.  
  
But he is bad. Selfish. He can’t stop himself now that he knows. His mind whirls all on its own, loud and insistent. He can’t let go of the knowledge that someone has Batman on edge. Something is happening and he suddenly, desperately needs to know what.  
  
***  
  
He waits until he is alone in the kind house. He is almost never alone now, so he has to watch for his opportunity with great care.  
  
It comes in the evening after he has been dragged back from the hospital and Alfred has finished forcing unwanted food into his body. He is supposed to fall asleep because of the drugs, but once Alfred is gone he purges both food and drugs from his system.  
  
He makes a mess of the room and lays a trail that will send them running either back to the hospital or to the  _ ~~(castleprisonhome?)~~_  house.  
  
He hides, watches the frantic expressions, the hurried movements as they take up the chase. He knows they’ll be angry, knows he is being bad. But he needs to know.  
  
The air in the Batcave is cool against his skin. Being there again after so long feels strange. There is a hole inside of him where Robin used to be and the wound aches now. He is trespassing, no longer wanted in this place. Just returning to the cave is so presumptuous. If they find him here they’ll be even angrier than before. Maybe they’ll finally leave him. Fly away like the gods and never come back.  
  
The thought fills him with terror. But they’ve already rejected him. Already made it clear that he is Unloved. Maybe now they’ll let him wait by the hospital bed in peace. Maybe –  
  
He blinks up at the looming screen of the Batcomputer and then down at his hands as they dance along the keyboard. He doesn’t remember sitting down at the computer. Doesn’t remember hacking into Batman’s files.  
  
But it doesn’t matter, because the information on the screen finally penetrates his brain.  
  
His mind races as he connects the dots. Black Mask’s rise to power in Gotham, the signs of a new drug lord in the making, the incident with Amazo, Batman’s encounters with an unknown vigilante calling himself Red Hood, the attacks on Black Mask’s territory, the Robin mask found in the batmobile…  
  
And then everything makes sense.  
  
***  
  
Robin doesn’t fit him anymore.  
  
The costume feels too large; it hangs off his frame. The mask is too big; it seems to swallow up his entire face. The boots don’t fit anymore; his feet feel dwarfed inside them.  
  
Bruce was right to fire him. He is unfit to even pretend to play this role.  
  
But he can do it one last time. One last chance to drape himself in fine colors and believe for a short time that he actually matters.  
  
He may be Unloved. He may be useless and selfish and bad.  
  
But he can do this, if nothing else.  
  
He owes it to them. To all of them. He was never the one they wanted, but they kept him anyway. They were far kinder to him than he ever deserved.  
  
That’s why he has to do this.  
  
He will bring the Second Beloved home.  
  
Or die trying.


	7. Second

He feels bad about stealing one of the motorcycles in the cave. He’s driven it before. He knows how even though he shouldn’t. Even though he doesn’t have a permit or a license. It hadn’t mattered…before. But he no longer has the right to even look at the vehicle. He knows this. He does.

But he needs to find the Second Beloved. Needs to stop this pointless fight. Needs to bring the Second Beloved home to Bruce.

There is no other option.

He flies down darkened roads, speeding toward Gotham.

He doesn’t know where the Second Beloved is, not exactly. But he had used the batcomputer to run a few analyses, so at least he had an idea of the Second Beloved’s usual haunts.

He drives and drives until he’s in the midst of the forest of buildings he has come to know so well. Gotham, at least, hasn’t changed. He makes a circuit through the areas the Second Beloved is most likely to be.

But there is nothing. He feels like he’s going around in circles. It makes him sick. He finally skids to a stop in an alley, parks the bike behind a dumpster and then makes his way up to the rooftops. Using the zip line is a lot harder than he remembers, but soon enough he’s standing on the roof of one of the taller apartment buildings in the area.

Gotham stretches out before him and he sweeps the city first by sight and then with binoculars.

But there is nothing there.

His stomach churns. This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. What had he been thinking? How could  _he_  find the Second Beloved? The Second Beloved was brilliant and talented and good. What hope did  _he_  have of finding Bruce’s dearly mourned Beloved?

“Well, well.  What do we have here?” A voice rings out in the night.

He turns, his body automatically sliding into a defensive position.

There. Leather jacket, red helmet. Everything the files said. Right in front of him.

The Red Hood.

The Second Beloved.

Perhaps he isn’t a complete failure after all.

“Did Daddy Dearest finally let you out of your cage, Baby Bird?” the Second Beloved asks, voice low.

The Second Beloved looks and sounds so different from what he remembers. Darker, angrier. But. It’s still him. Still Bruce’s Second Beloved. The one who would be forever mourned and never forgotten.

He licks his lips, opens his mouth and tries to make himself speak. Nothing comes out. His throat is dry and he suddenly wonders when the last time he spoke was. He can’t remember. There has been nothing to say. But now –

Now he needs his voice. Why won’t his stupid body work?

“Seco- ah, J-Jason.” He stumbles hoarsely over the words.

“Oh, so you know who I am?” It’s a snarl.

“Of course.” How could he not? The Second Beloved was everything he wishes he could be.

“Really? Well, I know all about  _you,_  Timothy Drake. My  _Replacement_.” The last word is spat like a curse.

He flinches slightly at the tone. He doesn’t understand. He’s upset the Second Beloved already. Why is he such an idiot? What the other must think of him. What can he -

But no. The files said the Second Beloved might not make sense. He cannot get sidetracked. He came here for a reason.

“I came to bring you home,” he says.

The Second Beloved snorts. “That’s funny, Replacement. Just precious.”

“I’m not joking. Br- Batman needs you.”

The Second Beloved stiffens. “Yeah. He  _needs_  me.” The words are mocking. “Needs me so much he fucking replaced me. With  _you_. How many hours after I was cold in the ground did he bother waiting before giving you Robin?”

“He didn’t,” he falters, unsure of how to continue, of what words he should use. Why can’t he think? “He was lost without you. Dangerous. I. I tried to get the First- to get Nightwing. To come back. But he wouldn’t. Bruce needed someone. I – ”

And then he can’t say anything else because he’s dodging backwards, trying to avoid the Second Beloved who is suddenly right in front of him. But his body is sluggish and disobedient. Most of the Second Beloved’s strikes hit hard.

“Please, Jason,” he says between gasps for air as he struggles to stay on his feet.

“Shut up.”

“No. Come home. Please. Batman- ” he says.

The Second Beloved snarls. “Batman what? Loves me? Yeah. Sure. That’s why the bastard that put me down is still walking free. Still killing innocents. If he really loved me, he’d avenge me. He’d bring that bastard to justice.”

“That’s not justice,” he argues. The words are coming easier now. He manages to dodge a few more punches, land a few blows of his own. “He wouldn’t.”

“Oh look at you. A sweet little parrot. Pull the other one, Pretender. We both know that if  _Goldie_  were the one the Joker offed, there’d be nothing left of that fucking clown. Don’t try to tell me the Bat wouldn’t. You know he would.”

That’s…probably true, he concedes. The First Beloved is special. But so is the Second Beloved.

“Please,” he says. “This won’t make it better. You can’t fix it. Not like this. Just, just come home. Batman will take you back. He won’t hesitate.”

“He has a new Robin now, doesn’t he? What does he need me for?” the man snarled.

“He’s always needed you. He never stopped. You’ll be Robin again,” he says in case it isn’t obvious. “It’s yours. It was never  _not_  yours. Just say the word.”

“And what about you?” The Second Beloved kicks him in the stomach, sending him flying backwards. He lands awkwardly on one of his ankles, but ignores the pain. “Where does that leave you, Replacement?”

“What do you mean?” He doesn’t understand the question. Where does he enter into the equation? He’s nothing more than a placeholder. He would simply be returning the suit to its rightful owner.

“Are you stupid?” the Second Beloved demands, stalking toward him.

Yes, he doesn’t say. But he’s getting distracted. He needs to remember why he’s here.

“I’m not Robin,” he says instead, refusing to back up.

The Second Beloved stops. Laughs. The sound rings harshly in his ears. “That uniform says otherwise.”

“It’s not mine. I. It’s yours. It’s always been yours. I. I just came to bring it back.” His voice wavers, but he keeps going. He has a mission to accomplish. Success is the only option. He can’t falter.

“And was this a Bat-approved decision?” the Second Beloved asks, but leaves no room for a response.

The Second Beloved’s knee slam’s into his stomach. An elbow jabs into the back of his neck and then he’s being shoved and falling. He hits the roof. Hard.

“No. He, he,” he struggles to speak. But he can’t breathe. Can’t see. His vision darkens dangerously and then the world tilts on its side as he’s jerked roughly to his feet by the back of his cape.

“Ja-Jason,” he gasps.

“Pathetic,” the masked vigilante sneers. “I can’t believe he replaced me with  _you._  He must have been desperate if he settled for a helpless little shit like you.”

It’s true. But he cannot let the Second Beloved speak about Bruce that way.

He lurches forward. Throws a punch.

The Second Beloved catches his hand and  _pulls._

He flies through the air and hits the ground.

Again, he is pulled to his feet by his cape.

A fist smashes into his face before he can regain his bearings. A leg sweeps him off his feet. And a heavy booted foot stops him from getting up, pressing down on his stomach.

It takes too long for his brain to catch up, to realize where he is. Once he does he starts to struggle. The boot bears down, unmovable. All of his training disappears. He claws at the boot as fear finally sinks into his brain.

The Second Beloved laughs again. “I’d be doing him a favor by killing you.”

Of course. Of course. Bruce would be so relieved not to be burdened by him. And then Bruce and his Beloveds could live in peace. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He could have saved them all the trouble. He could have -

But. But he doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t. Even. Even if he is Unloved. He doesn’t.

His hand moves before he can think about it.

The Second Beloved shouts in pained surprise.

The moment he is free from the boot, he scrambles to his feet, reaching for his staff. He should have been using it from the beginning. Stupid.

The Second Beloved curses and pulls the batarang out of his calf muscle. The bloody weapon clatters to the floor.

“Heh,” the masked man says. “You’ve got spunk, kid. Too bad that isn’t going to save you.”

“Please,” he says. “Bruce needs you. Just. Just come home. We can work something out.”

“This isn’t a fairytale, Replacement. There are no happy endings. Not for me. And certainly not for you,” the Second Beloved snaps.

And then there isn’t any time for talking, because the Second Beloved is on him, a blur of fists, feet, and an unnervingly sharp knife.

The bo staff is familiar in his hands, even if his body can’t seem do anything else right. His heart pounds in his chest. Faster. He needs to be faster. The knife gets too close again and again, a nick here and a nick there. The Second Beloved is playing with him, he realizes even as he focuses on keeping the blade as far away from him as possible.

Finally he clumsily manages to knock the knife out of the Second Beloved’s hand.

A mistake. The next moment his bo staff flies out of his hands and he hits the roof. He automatically tries to get back up, but he can’t. The Second Beloved is there. Right on top of him, hands pressing down on his arms, legs pinning him in place.

His wrists are roughly dragged above his head and pinned in place, freeing one of the Second Beloved’s hands. The hand reaches up, removes the red helmet and tosses it aside revealing a face he knows better than his own.

“You are so fucked, Baby Bird.”

That familiar face leers cruelly down at him, but he’s suddenly painfully aware of how close the Second Beloved is to him. The hands holding him in place. The body crushing him to the roof. It’s warm. So warm.

The Second Beloved is different now, he realizes.  So much stronger. Older. More powerful.

The Second B-  _Jason._  Jason isn’t Bruce. Isn’t kind. But. But he’s family. And. And he can’t be picky, can he?

It’s been so long. And maybe. Maybe Jason will want him.

Maybe Jason will make him Beloved again.

He looks up into that well of unconcealed fury and feels his body relax automatically.

It will hurt. He has no illusions about that. It won’t be nice like he’d hoped it might be with Bruce, but that’s okay. It doesn’t matter. As long as he can be Beloved again. As long as  _someone_  wants him.

He tilts his head to the side. Exposing his neck. Hoping Jason will understand.

Jason falters, pushes down harder on his wrists and legs. He doesn’t react. He knows the rules. He can be good. He can. He can make up for his mistakes with Bruce.

Fingers grip his chin and forcefully turn his face.

He can work with that.

He shakes his head sharply. Jason’s grip slips enough that he can twist his head just enough.

He manages to capture two of Jason’s gloved fingers in his mouth. The gloves taste like leather and gunpowder and blood, but that doesn’t matter. He closes his eyes and sucks. Runs his tongue over the material as he does his best to get Jason’s fingers as far down his throat as he can manage. He’s out of practice. But he can do better quickly. He knows he can. Just –

The fingers are yanked abruptly from his grasp, slipping out of his mouth with a dull pop.

He blinks slowly and flexes his suddenly free hands. Sits up. Looks at Jason who is standing a few feet back, clutching his slick, black gloved hand close to his chest.

“The fuck is wrong with you, Pretender?” Jason demands, voice a little too loud.

But moments later Jason is shaking his head, laughing. “You clever little shit. That was good.”

He frowns, confused. Why is Jason laughing? Is he that pathetic? He ducks his head and bites his lip. He’d been doing a good job. Hadn’t he? He’d thought –

But. Maybe he isn’t being clear enough.

He tips forward onto his hands and knees and begins to crawl across the roof toward Jason.

The other continues to laugh. It’s a nicer sound now. Not so angry, no longer grating against his ears like broken glass. Maybe Jason will be kind after all.

He finally reaches Jason. He sits up and back on his heels and is relieved that Jason isn’t wearing a spandex uniform. He reaches up and begins to undo the other’s pants.

Jason stops laughing and grabs hold of the questing hands.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Replacement?” Jason growls.

He bites his lip. He isn’t supposed to talk. Jason was once Beloved, so he would know, even if Bruce does it differently. Is this some kind of trick?

Or, or maybe Jason just doesn’t want him.

His stomach sinks.

Maybe, maybe he isn’t trying hard enough?

He presses his face against Jason’s crotch. He hasn’t done it quite like this before, but he can learn if this is what Jason wants. He opens his mouth and –

“Fucking hell!” Jason curses and knees him in the chin.

He tastes blood, but doesn’t have long to think about it because Jason is shoving him away, sending him tumbling backward onto the ground.

Close. He’d been so close.

Why does he keep screwing up?

He chances a look up at Jason. The vigilante is staring at him with the strangest expression.

“What was that?” Jason demands. “Well? Fucking answer me.”

He licks his lips. He isn’t –

But he’s supposed to obey.

If he’s obedient maybe –

“I was trying to help,” he says.

“Help?  _That’s_  your idea of help?”

“I. I want to be useful. I. Br-Batman – ”

“What!”

He shakes his head. He can’t. He can’t talk. He’s making such a mess of things. Such an awful mess. This is why he isn’t supposed to speak. He ruins everything. He’s no good. No good at all.

He begins tugging at his belt and the hidden fasteners on his uniform. If he’s good and just takes it, it won’t be a problem. He can be Beloved again. He can. He just. He just –

Hands grip his wrists, stopping him from presenting himself properly. He struggles weakly.

He’s trying. He’s trying. Why –

“ – did he do to you? What the fuck did he do to you, kid?”

He realizes that Jason is speaking and stares up at him with wide eyes.

Jason’s face is so close and so angry. “Did he touch you? I never thought he’d – I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him.”

He doesn’t understand what’s going on. What has he done wrong now?

“He didn’t. B-Batman doesn’t want me,” he tries to explain. But his mind is such a mess. Just like everything else. “I’m bad. I. Not good enough. I tried. I did. Please. Please. I’m sorry. Please. I just want to be Beloved again. Please. I’ll do anything.”

The anger on Jason’s face flickers. Jason opens his mouth, but before a sound can leave his lips a low gravelly voice interrupts.

“Let him go, Jason.”

Jason’s hold tightens on his wrists. “Why the hell should I? What have you done to him?” Jason snaps.

He is silent. He wants to die. To sink into the shadows and never reappear. Bruce is here. Bruce will be so angry with him. Bad. So bad. And stupid. He disobeyed direct orders. And spoke to the Second Beloved like he had a right to do so.

“Not nearly as much as I should have,” Bruce says. “And it’s none of your business, Jason. Leave him out of your vendetta. He’s been through enough.”

“He came and found me all on his own, B. What, the locks on his cage not secure enough?”

But. But what if Jason wants him? What if Jason keeps him? Makes him Beloved?

“He. He’s not in his right mind at the moment.”

But Bruce. Bruce came for him. Probably only to punish him. But you don’t punish someone you don’t care about. Punishments make you better. Don’t they? Maybe. Maybe Bruce will finally let him -

“No shit, Sherlock. And you’re not answering my question,” Jason points out.

“As I said. It’s none of your business.”

And then Bruce, Batman is there. Right in front of them, plucking him out of Jason’s suddenly slackened grasp.

His body melts into the warm arms surrounding him. He cannot remember the last time someone held him like this.

It’s – 

It’s nice.

That’s all he can think as Bruce enfolds him in Batman’s black cape and bounds away into the night.

 


	8. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a trained psychologist/therapist. I have an undergraduate degree in psychology and cognitive science, but I have no clinical experience. I'm more of a psychology researcher if anything else and I have little experience with therapy myself. I have done a lot of research for this story, but I am in no way shape or form an expert what Tim is going through or the best ways to help him deal with it. Some of the ways the characters in this story deal with the abuse Tim suffered are highly unorthodox and possibly counterproductive.

He wakes to the sound of slow, steady beeping harmonizing with a quiet pitter-patter.

He lies still and listens. The sounds are soothing. Unobtrusive. Pleasant.

Rain, he realizes eventually. Rain drumming on a window. And –

And the beeping –

The all too familiar beeping of a heart monitor. He would know that sound anywhere. After so many hours spent in silent vigil by the sleeping god’s side, how could he not? But he knows. He knows this time -

It’s his heart that’s keeping time.

Sluggishly, he forces his eyes to open. Above him stretches a ceiling he knows far too well.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Alfred’s voice is gentle and near. “In case you were curious, you’ve been unconscious for three days. You have three cracked ribs, a sprained ankle and an impressive array of contusions and abrasions. If you can manage to stay still for a few weeks, you should make a full recovery. But I should like to point out that you gave us quite a scare, Master Timothy.”

He should feel ashamed at the reproof in Alfred’s words, but he doesn’t. All of the emotion has been washed out of him, leaving him blank and drawn. Empty.

“I’ll inform Master Bruce that you’ve awakened.”

Alfred’s shoes click against the hardwood floor. The door slides shut with a quiet thud, followed by the clack of the latch locking him in. For a few moments he can hear the sound of dampened footsteps getting softer and softer until they fade entirely, leaving him alone.

He closes his eyes. He tries to remember what has happened, why he’s here, but his head feels as though it has been stuffed with cotton. He can’t think. He can’t –

So he doesn’t. He lets go and allows himself drift in and out of awareness until a large hand on his shoulder draws him back to wakefulness.

Unthinking, he leans into the warm touch. The hand abruptly disappears.

He feels empty at the loss, turning his head blindly toward where the owner of the hand had to be. Moving his neck hurts, he notices distantly. So does swallowing. He opens his eyes and discovers that blinking does as well. He finds that he doesn’t particularly care.

“Tim,” Bruce says. “I. I’m sorry.”

He says nothing, just looks uncomprehendingly at the man seated at his bedside. Bruce is…apologizing?

“I should have gotten there sooner. Jason – ”

Oh.

_Oh._

He remembers that. Remembers the Second Beloved, remembers Jason. Remembers that he tried –

But Jason hadn’t. Hadn’t wanted him. No one did. Except. Except Bruce came for him.

And that didn’t make sense. Why. Why did they keep bringing him back? Why?

He was nothing. He wasn’t worth  _anything._  So why –

“He hurt you. I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

Some strange emotion weighed heavily in Bruce’s voice. It sounded like it might - but no. Because there is no reason Bruce would feel something like guilt. No. Not about _him._

Bruce. Bruce must be talking about Jason. The Second Beloved. Bruce must be angry that he went to the Second Beloved. That he interfered. Of course. Because Bruce loves the Second Beloved the way Bruce cannot, does not love him.

“I shouldn’t have let any of this happen.”

And he understands. Hopes this will be the end. Hopes they will finally let him be. Let him disappear.

Except he doesn’t because –

Because he doesn’t want to be forgotten. He doesn’t want to leave the kind house. He wants to stay so desperately it hurts. He doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. He’s tried so hard to be good. To be what Bruce needs him to be.

But there must be something wrong with him. Something broken and bad and no matter how hard he tries to be good, no one wants him.

He needs to go back to the hospital.

“Stop dancing around it, Bruce.” The First Beloved’s voice whips angrily across the room.

He hadn’t noticed that the First Beloved was also present. Stupid. _Stupid._

“What would you have me do?” Bruce asks.

“Avoiding it isn’t going to make it any easier. The sooner.” The First Beloved pauses for a moment. “The sooner he knows, the sooner we can. The sooner we can move on.”

They’re fighting again. About him. Because of him. He feels sick.

“Move on? How is he supposed to move on from this?”

Why do they keep dragging it out?

“Don’t you _dare_  make this about you. Don’t you dare, Bruce.”

Why can’t they just throw him out and be done with it?

“I didn’t mean – ”

He’s sorry. He is.

“Yes, you did. You always do that. But you don’t get to play the sympathy card. Not today.”

He wants to try. He just doesn’t know how to be better.

“Dick – ”

It hurts, but he tries to curl in on himself. He wants to shrink into nothingness, to disappear into the sheets, swallowed up and forgotten. Out of sight and out of mind. Anything to make them stop fighting.

“Just tell him. Or I will.”

There is a silence against the song of his own distress, a harmony of steadily pounding rain and rapidly accelerating beeps.

“Tim. Tim, look at me, please.”

Bruce sounded so grave.

His heart fills with sudden dread. He knows it is disobedient and wrong, but he does not look at Bruce. He knows what’s coming. He knows they’re going to get rid of him. He’s been waiting and waiting for it to happen. And it should be a relief to have the wait finally come to an end. To know what his fate will be. But it isn’t. It isn’t.

“Please, Tim. This is important. It’s about your father.”

He sits up so quickly his head spins and he nearly topples over. He turns and looks up at Bruce with wide, desperate eyes. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t even thought. Maybe, maybe he really would be allowed to be Beloved again. Not in the kind house, but in the ~~_castlejailmausoleum_~~  house. And that would be okay. That would be everything.

Bruce’s face is blank as stone, his lips forming words that cannot possibly true. “I’m sorry, Tim. I. Your father. He died. Two nights ago. There was nothing anyone could do. He just…slipped away during the night. I’m sorry.”

***

The woman sits across from him.

Her face swims into focus against a fuzzy backdrop of meaningless information. She is a sea of calm, of warmth and safety. He sees it in her posture, in her expression, in her eyes. He always has. But her kindness has never been for him.

Now. Now he doesn’t remember how he got here or when. He doesn’t remember sitting down on the disarmingly comfortable couch or being left alone with this woman.

All he knows, all he can think of is -

“Good morning, Tim,” she says gently. “What would you like to talk about today?”

And it’s a stupid question. A hilariously stupid, pointless question.

Because there is only one thing he can talk about, only one thing that matters. How could there be anything else?

He can’t stop it. Can’t help it.

He laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs, soundless choking peals of laughter until he falls off the over-stuffed couch onto the floor. His ribs cry out in protest but he doesn’t care. He  _doesn’t care._

And then as suddenly as the laughter began, it stops. Dried up in his throat until he can’t make a sound.

But he has to, he realizes. He has to. He has to. He has to.

“He.” The word comes out barely a whisper, parched and cracked and broken like him. “He’s - he’s dead. He’s  _dead_.”

The woman’s face blurs as tears well up in his eyes. He should try to stop himself. Crying is pointless, a stupid waste of bodily fluids that won’t change anything. But he doesn’t care, because it doesn’t matter. There is only one thought in his mind. One thing he can say.

“He’s dead.”

The world has ended, but he’s still here. And he doesn’t understand why. All he can do is cry.

“My father is dead.”

***

Finally there are no more tears to cry. No more water left to spill from his body and it leaves him feeling used and empty.

He realizes that he is being held in slender arms against a matronly body. For a moment he thinks of the first of fallen iterant gods. But no, the arms enfolding him are too open, too soft. There are no sharp edges, no frigid lines to cut himself against. And. And those arms are  _touching_  him. Holding him. Like it’s natural and right. And the god had never –

Not like -

And of course it isn’t her. That god fell months ago. Besides, even his blurry eyes can see that the neck he’s resting against is the wrong color. Not the pale tones of the first fallen god. No, his face is pressed against dark olive skin, real and warm and not like -

He pulls away and the arms let him go. He looks up into the calm face of the woman.*

She reaches out a hand and he flinches away. Can’t stop himself. He doesn’t know what to do with her, what she wants from him. He never knows what they want from him. Why couldn’t he have been better all along? What was so wrong with him that he -

He expects a flash of annoyance, of hate in her eyes, but it doesn’t come. Instead she smiles sadly. “Mister Wayne told me what happened, Tim. I’m sorry.”

And amidst the pain and grief, his brain catches on something. Bruce’s words play back in his mind.

_Slipped away in the night._

But. But the god had been stable. Just a few days ago. It didn’t make sense. Something had to have -

“Where is he?” he finds himself asking, impertinent and rude. She’ll probably hate him now. No more hugs, just like the First Beloved. But that doesn’t matter. “Where is he? I want to see him. I want to see my father. I want. I need. Please.  _Please_.”

Her eyes widen briefly before relaxing with practiced ease.

“Tim – ”

“I just. I need to seem him. I need to know. It isn’t real. It’s a lie. My father. Please. Where is he?” The desperation builds up inside of him. He needs to get out. He needs -

The woman gets up and goes to the door. He watches her open it with blurry eyes. “Mister Wayne,” she says into the hall. “I think you need to come in here.”

Bruce appears in the doorway, face drawn. “Doctor Singh, is everything okay? Tim…”

“Tim needs you right now,” the woman, Doctor Singh, says.

He can feel Bruce’s eyes on him. Knows that Bruce is seeing his messy, tear-stained face. Knows what Bruce is thinking. But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. It can’t. His father isn’t dead.

“I want to see him. I want to see my father,” he says.

Bruce grimaces. The expression is there and then it’s not, but he  _sees_  it. Bruce is uncomfortable. Bruce is hiding something. “Tim, I can’t let you do that.”

“Why?” It’s a scream. He didn’t mean to scream. But now that he has he can’t seem to stop. “Why? Where is he? What aren’t you telling me? Where is my dad?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“Help me? Don’t help me. Just give me my father. Give him back. I’m sorry I was bad. I’m sorry. I won’t.” He’d thought he didn’t have any tears left to cry. He was wrong. “I’ll leave. No bother. I’m sorry. Just give him back.”

Bruce’s face is pained. “Your father is dead.”

“Liar. You’re lying. I can see it.”

He sees the shame in Bruce’s face. Bruce  _is_  lying.

“Mister Wayne, dishonesty is not going to help Tim’s recovery.” The Doctor’s words seal his certainty. “Neither is rejecting his thoughts and feelings in a moment of extreme duress. If you want him to trust you, you need to be honest and open with him…”

He stops listening to the woman’s words.  All he can see is the still open door.

For the first time since his failed attempt to bring the Second Beloved back to Bruce, no one is watching him.

There’s no one to see.

And no one does.

He is going to find his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Doctor Singh is not exactly an orthodox psychologist by any means, but even liberal psychologists and therapists do not hug their patients without the patient’s express permission. Doctor Singh was overcome by the very human need to offer comfort to Tim when he clearly needed it. If Tim hadn’t run off she would have attempted to discuss the hug with him and would have apologized for touching him without permission.


	9. Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The hospital bed is empty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes some gore and…necrophilia ideation? As always, read at your own risk. Seriously.

The hospital bed is empty. White sheets – folded with crisp, careful corners – lay waiting at the foot of the bed.

His father is nowhere to be seen.

That doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t.

They must have moved his father. That’s all. That’s all. He’s not. He can’t be. Bruce was _lying_.

His nails bite into the palms of his hands as he fights the urge to crawl into that empty bed and search for lingering familiar scents. But no. His father has not smelled right for as long as he has lain in that bed. And now. Now there will be nothing in those sheets. Nothing but bleach and sterilized air.

He turns on his heel and walks away. He knows they will have noticed his absence by this point and they can’t bring him back to the room yet. They always bring him back and he doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why they bother, why they do this to him. But he can’t. He can’t think about that. He can’t. He needs to know the truth. He needs his father.

His feet carry him away from that tomblike room. They carry him down endless hallways marked with blank-faced doors. People surge past him, but he doesn’t see them. On and on he goes until he finds an empty office in a less trafficked corridor. He picks the lock and sneaks inside.

He sits in the cushioned office chair. The computer is password protected. That does not stop him. He is-

Was - 

He played Robin for a time, after all.

Fingers fly across the keyboard, searching and searching. Closer and closer. And then it’s there. In black and white. The moment he sees the room number he’s off. He doesn’t bother to cover his tracks. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing except finding his father.

***

It’s cold in the basement of the hospital, but he barely notices. He just walks and walks in the endless maze of halls wondering where, where is it -

The basement is deserted. The doors are shut tight, unmarked and indifferent. He wants to shout at them, yell at them to reveal their secrets. But he doesn’t. He shouldn’t make a mess. Not now when he’s so close to finding his father. He needs to be better than that.

His patience is rewarded when he finally finds the correct room number.

He tries the door, but it is locked. He hacks the electronic lock.

The room he enters is dark.

Already he can tell something is wrong. The air is heavy with disinfectant, but another smell lingers. It makes his stomach churn. They should not be keeping his father in the dark. His father will never wake up if they keep him locked up like this. He hunts impatiently for the lights.

The lights flick on.

There is no one inside, just three steel tables spaced evenly apart in the middle of the room and lines of stainless steel drawers lining the walls. His stomach sinks.

There has been a mistake. He should go to one of the computers in the cluster of desks to his right and double check his findings. Clearly he had been too hasty. He’d come to the wrong room. A stupid, stupid mistake. He should have known better. He should fix this -

But he doesn’t. He takes a step. And another. He cannot stop walking. Something is pulling him, on and on, inexorable and unforgiving.

He wants to stop. He wants to go back. But he can’t. He can’t.

He comes to a stop in front of the first set of drawers. His fingers trace small placards mounted on each drawer. The words and numbers there are meaningless. He continues down the row.

Down and down he goes until his hands freeze on one of the placards.

Fingers tremble and pry the card free from its holder.

The words do not change.

The letters lay stubbornly still, black ink on white paper.

**Jack Drake**

He doesn’t see the rest. The words blur in his mind as the card flutters to the floor. He doesn’t care. Blindly, he tugs open the drawer. It pulls out and there’s nothing in it by a lumpy gray bag. He doesn’t think, can’t think, but his hands are already moving, tugging at the seal of the bag, pulling the bottom open to reveal unnaturally pale toes and dark purple heels.

The bag parts down the middle. His gaze moves up and along the pale legs. Higher and higher. And then.

His hand reaches out, touches the only place that could make him Beloved, and pulls back.  His fingers come away flecked dark red.

The world is spinning.

He puts his hand above the gaping red and white hole and slides his hand up. He touches the too cool chest and tries to think about darkness and silk and being Beloved. But those things slip away like smoke in his hands, leaving only sterile whiteness and cool flesh.

His fingers settle over the place where a heart once beat strong in his ears. Only two of his bare fingers can fit into the hole there. He digs in, wriggling to get deeper and deeper. Maybe –

But it is cold and black in there, not warm, and his stomach churns. He pulls his hand free.

His eyes look away and continue the journey up a familiar neck, to a slack face that still looks wrong in the hospital lighting. But it is not just the florescent light that is wrong now. His eyes skirt around the top of the head for a few moments before being drawn to look exactly where he doesn’t want to.

He turns around, falls to his knees and empties his stomach onto the floor.

***

  _Slipped away in the night._

_Slipped away in the night._

_Slipped away..._

The words repeat over and over in his head like a broken record as his red-flecked fingers move across the keyboard in front of him. It takes longer than it should for him to realize that he has found what he is looking for.

The coroner’s report.

Black letters glare out at him from the white screen. He stares blankly at the words and the mantra repeats in his mind.

_Slipped away in the..._

He blinks. Swallows. There is a terrible taste in his mouth.

_Slipped away..._

_Slipped..._

He forces himself to focus.

_Decedent…coma patient…cause of death…gunshot wounds…head, heart and groin... .22 caliber bullets_

The words filter into his mind slowly at first. Then faster.

The realization is not a surprise. No. He has felt, guessed, known for a while.

_Slipped away in the night._

It is a strange euphemism for murder. Isn’t it?

Murder.

Bruce lied. _Lied_.

He should have. He have _known_ , how could he _not?_

He wants to scream. To laugh. His stomach churns and if there was anything left inside of him, he knows it will soon be on the floor. But there’s nothing left. Nothing.

Dead. Dead. Beloved is dead. Murdered.

He gets up. Starts opening drawers. Not the…not the large ones. The smaller ones. He rummages about until his fingers find the cool metal of scalpel.

Dead. Murdered. Gone.

There is nothing left for him. Of him.

He sits on the sterile white floor and digs the sharp edge of his weapon into his skin, digging out the tracers in his left shoulder and right ankle. Those are the ones he knows about. But with searching fingers he finds another in his left thigh and cuts that out too.

There’s blood on the floor. But he doesn’t have time to clean up his mess.

His hands shake as he searches for a needle and thread and bandages. The stiches are jagged and bandages sloppy. But they will suffice.

He drops the tracers down the sink and washes the blood off his hands until they are red and raw.

Beloved is dead. There’s nothing left and it’s not…it’s not even his fault. There’s just…nothing. No one. He’s alone.

But…if there was anything Bruce…Batman had given him it was justice. Even now he could… _would_ have justice.

And then…

Then he would be done.


End file.
